Back downstairs, Dolly opened the mahogany doors of the stereo cabinet, switched on the record player and gently placed the needle on the LP that was already on the turntable. She had played it over and over since she got home from the police station: the deep rich tones of Kathleen Ferrier singing ‘Life without Death’ seemed to soothe her.
Dolly sat in the living room smoking, with Wolf curled up at her side. She sat there all night. She didn’t cry, she couldn’t — it was as if someone had drained every emotion from inside her. She thought back to the morning two days ago, when Harry had kissed her goodbye. His business trip to buy some antiques should only take a couple of days, he’d said. She’d missed him every moment he was gone and last night had been preparing lasagna for dinner on his return home — Harry liked it with the cheese crisped up over the pasta — when the doorbell rang.
She had wiped her hands on a dishcloth as Wolf yapped and bounded toward the studded mahogany front door. She went to follow him into the hallway and froze. There, outlined in the stained-glass panels, were two dark figures. The doorbell rang again.
The two detectives had shown her their warrant cards and asked her whether her husband was at home. The law had come knocking a few times in the past, so Dolly was immediately guarded and non-committal, telling them Harry was away on business. They had then told her to get her shoes and coat on and accompany them to the station to identify something they believed belonged to her husband. They were unhelpful in the patrol car, refusing to answer her questions, which scared her. What if they had arrested Harry? She decided not to say or ask anything until she knew more.
At the station they took her into a cold, bare room with a Formica-topped table and four matching hard chairs. A uniformed policewoman stood beside Dolly as a detective handed her a plastic property bag containing a gold Rolex watch with a diamond encrusted face. When she tried to open the bag, the detective had snatched it away.
‘Don’t touch!’ he snapped. He put on white forensic rubber gloves, removed the watch and turned the face over to reveal the faded inscription.
‘To Harry — love, Dolly — 2/12/62,’ whispered Dolly. Somehow she managed to maintain control. ‘That’s my husband’s,’ she said. ‘That’s Harry’s.’ And her world collapsed.
‘We took it from the wrist of a dead body.’ The lead detective paused to gauge her reaction. ‘The charred, dead body of a man.’
Dolly grabbed the watch, backing away from the detective until she hit the far wall of the room. The female officer came after her, hand held out.
‘That’s evidence!’ she said. ‘Give it here!’
Dolly held on to the watch with all her strength. Shock had made her lose all inhibition. ‘You’re lying!’ she screeched. ‘He’s not dead. He’s not!’ As Harry’s precious watch was pried from her fingers, she hissed, ‘I want to see him. I need to see him!’
The female officer had had enough. ‘There’s nothing left to see,’ she said coldly.
All the way home in the police car, Dolly kept telling herself that it could not have been Harry, even though the voice in her head kept whispering to her... She’d given that watch to him on their tenth wedding anniversary. He’d kissed her and promised that he would never take it off. Dolly had loved the way he would glance at it; would hold his arm out straight, turn his wrist and watch the light catch the diamonds. He was never without his Rolex — even in bed. For their next anniversary, she had bought him a solid gold Dunhill cigarette lighter engraved with his initials. He’d laughed and told her that, like the watch, he would always carry it with him.
But, even so, she could not accept that he wouldn’t be coming home.
Audrey had arranged Terry’s funeral. It was a quiet family affair, just a few drinks back at the house, nothing special; besides, Shirley was still in such a state that it was all Audrey could do to get her dressed.
Greg, Shirley’s punk brother, helped out as best he could, but he was still very young and couldn’t cope with his older sister’s outpouring of emotion. When Shirley had tried to jump into the grave on top of the coffin, he’d been so embarrassed he’d walked off and attached himself to a completely different and far more dignified funeral party.
No headstone had yet been ordered because Audrey hadn’t liked to ask for money, but she planned to arrange something as soon as Shirley was back on her feet. She had high hopes of Shirley going back onto the beauty queen circuit; with her stunning looks, Audrey thought her daughter could make it through to the Miss England heats. In fact, she had already put her down for Miss Paddington... she would bring that up later, when Shirley wasn’t crying so much.
Linda was in the living room of the crowded Pirelli family council flat. All Joe’s relatives had been invited to the funeral and wake and were howling and carrying on in voluble Italian, dressed from head to toe in black. Her mother-in-law, Mama Pirelli, had been cooking for days, preparing a feast — pasta, pizza, salami — you name it, it was on the table. Linda was an orphan and had no family of her own to invite. As for friends, the lads from the arcade where she worked never really knew Joe, so Linda was getting very drunk on her own. She could sense the guests watching her, shaking their heads at her bright red dress. She didn’t care.
Looking round the sea of tearful faces, Linda suddenly spotted a woman at the far end of the room and recognized the little blonde slag she’d seen with Joe a few weeks ago. Blazing with fury, she pushed her way through the guests toward the weeping woman.
‘Who the hell invited you?’ Linda screamed. She’d give her something to remember him by! She threw her glass of wine over the girl and would have laid in to her if Gino, Joe’s younger brother, hadn’t pulled her away in time. Holding Linda tight as she sobbed, Gino whispered soft comfort in her ear, and casually placed his drunken hand on her right tit.
Consumed by grief, Dolly Rawlins had barely eaten. She felt as if night and day had blurred together, but somehow, on autopilot, she had agreed to bury her husband. She sat in the living room wearing a neat black suit and black hat with a small veil. She smoothed her black kid-leather gloves over and over, feeling her wedding and engagement rings through the soft leather. Wolf sat on the sofa beside her, his little warm body pushed against her hip.
Even today, Dolly was a strikingly composed figure; her sandy hair was immaculate, her make-up was discreet and her manner was businesslike. She was a woman determined to let no one share her very personal and very private grief. They couldn’t possibly understand and the last thing she wanted was anyone suggesting that they did.
Dolly’s partnership with Harry had been a very special one. They had met when she was running her late father’s antique and junk stall in Petticoat Lane, but it wasn’t Harry’s flash E-type Jag, his good looks and charm that had drawn her to him, although of course she noticed them. No, the connection went much deeper than that.
When Harry proposed with a solitaire diamond ring, he took Dolly’s breath away. Harry’s mother Iris had been equally breathless, but for very different reasons. She couldn’t believe that her son wanted to marry a girl she saw as a common money-grabbing little tart. Iris had brought up her only son single-handedly after his father was imprisoned for armed robbery and died of cancer shortly after his release. She established a very successful — and apparently legitimate — antiques business, made sure Harry got a good education, and saw that he traveled extensively to further his knowledge of antique art, silver and precious stones. By the time he took over the business, Iris was struggling with arthritis and blinding migraines and ready to retire. Her final ambition for her only child was to see him married to a rich young woman with class and social connections. It was the first time Harry had ever defied his mother.